What's for Dinner?
by Scribomaniac
Summary: Modern AU in which Silver sometimes forgets to eat, and Flint makes him dinner.


Sometimes Silver forgot to eat.

It didn't happen all the time, and he didn't mean to forget, but every now and then John Silver would become so wrapped in this project or that, that he'd forget to set time aside to eat some food. Flint didn't worry about it too much. John was, after all, an adult who knew how to look out for himself. In fact, some would say looking out for himself was John's number one talent. But still, every now and then Flint would notice the lack of dishes in the sink or that the amount of food in their house was too much and should've been eaten ages ago, and Flint's brows would furrow with concern.

Flint knew the signs, and knew how to read them like the back of his hand. So when he returned home from work one day–a very long day due to all the students coming in to talk with him about their final essays–Flint wasn't all too surprised to find no dishes in the sink and none of Silver's normal snacks eaten. Walking through the house, Flint found Silver right where he'd left him earlier this morning: in their living room, sitting in front of a computer screen.

Concern pulled at his lips, causing him to frown. He hoped John hadn't been sitting in that position all day. His back muscles would be stiff all the next day for sure. Tomorrow was the weekend, though, meaning Flint didn't have to go in to work for a lecture or office hours–thank Christ. Maybe they'd make a day of it and get massages at the local spa house.

Silver still hadn't noticed Flint's arrival, so Flint took the time to look his lover over. John's curly, inky locks were pulled back away from his face and tied back in a loose bun. From the looks of it, too, the only thing keeping the knot together was a pencil. His eyes were glassy, but focused on the screen. And his mouth was set in a fine line as he worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

Shaking his head, Flint decided Silver needed a break. "John," he called softly, not wanting to startle him. Silver didn't hear him, so Flint tried again, "John." He walked closer and placed a hand on Silver's shoulder. Startled, Silver flinched against the hand, but as soon as he saw who it was, the tension in Silver's shoulders dissipated.

Silver smiled lazily up at Flint and reached up to hold the hand that was on his shoulder, "Hey," he rumbled, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse from disuse. He coughed to clear his throat. "When did you get home?" He titled his head to kiss Flint's hand.

"Just a bit ago. How's the article going?" Flint nodded at the screen, reading a few of the sentenced near the bottom of the page.

"It's going," Silver responded vaguely with a tired sigh. He blinked and looked around the room, as if just now realizing how dark it had gotten. "What time is it?"

With his free hand, Flint pulled the pencil from Silver's hair and wove his fingers into the newly freed tresses. "Dinner time," he mumbled into John's scalp before placing a soft kiss there. "Come on," he pulled on the roots of the dark hair firmly, making Silver gasp. Now when John tilted his head and their eyes met, there was more black than blue looking back at him.

Silver followed Flint into the kitchen, close on his heels. Flint grabbed ingredients from the fridge and began preparing dinner, Silver his ever present shadow. As he cut onions and peeled potatoes, Silver was a constant weight against his back. He did this, sometimes, after an exceptionally hard day. Whether it was hard because his prosthetic was giving him troubles or because of Eleanor, his editor, or because of something else entirely, whenever Silver felt emotionally exhausted, he'd latch on to Flint like barnacles to the underbelly of a ship. Flint didn't mind, he enjoyed it actually. Although Silver was a man of many words, neither of them were fantastic communicators of their emotions. Most of their deeper conversations were conveyed through touch.

Silver pressed his forehead at the base of Flint's neck and tightened his arms around his waist and inhaled deeply, breathing in Flint's natural scent. Flint hummed in response and moved to place some ingredients into a skillet. "What are we having?" Silver's voice, now silky with happiness and just a hint of sleepiness, barely carried over the sizzling of the meat.

"Pork," Flint replied, giving one of Silver's hand a squeeze before moving some of the pork around in the skillet.

Silver chuckled, "Remember the first time I tried to make your pork?"

Flint huffed out a laugh, shaking his head at the memory, "I thought you were trying to kill me–death by food poisoning."

"It does have a nice ring to it," Silver joked, stepping even closer to Flint so they were completely pressed against one another from hip to shoulder. He placed an open mouthed kiss on the juncture between Flint's neck and shoulder, making the red haired man shiver.

"None of that," Flint growled, pushing around more of the pork before looking over his shoulder. "Don't distract me, or I'll burn dinner."

"Then burn it and we can go straight to dessert," Silver persuaded, trailing more hot, open mouthed kisses up the side of Flint's neck until he reached the ear and took the lobe into his mouth and sucked, making Flint shiver and stifle a gasp.

Flint was nothing if not stubborn, though, and continued to cook. "Dinner first," he said adamantly, but then turned slightly so he could look at Silver. "And if you finish your plate," he murmured thickly, leaning in to capture Silver's mouth in a heated–albeit, awkward–kiss. Flint's teeth nibbled on Silver's bottom lip, pulling away from it with a satisfying sound. Silver moaned and followed Flint, trying to reach in for another kiss. Breathlessly, Flint continued his earlier thought, "Finish you plate," he said, cheeks flushed, "And you'll have two serving of dessert."

Silver pouted, but then grinned wickedly and rolled his hips against Flint's, making the red haired man groan with want. With another roll of his hips and a hard bite against Flint's neck–followed but the soothing stroke of his tongue–Silver asked, "And what do I have to do to get thirds?"

 **A/N: Let me know what you think!**


End file.
